Show Me
by ashleyjskywalker
Summary: 2x13 "What Lies Below"- Peter comes to Olivia late that night, looking for answers. Oneshot.


Today was... terrifying. Heart-wrenching. Eye-opening. An roller coaster of emotions, so many that it's almost too much to even begin processing right now. The half-empty bottle of whiskey that's sitting on the kitchen island is looking ridiculously inviting at the moment.

The terror began creeping in when you realized that you and Peter were stuck in the building with that virus. You tried to keep a positive outlook, tried not to think about your own mortality, or his. You'd both survived so much, after all, surely you'd get out of this one as well. But you could only keep the nagging feeling at bay for so long, and the dam holding it all back broke when you saw Peter covered in infected blood.

Hope came- albeit false hope, and even that only briefly, yet it was enough to calm your nerves for a moment- when he passed Walter's test, and you let yourself breathe a sigh of relief that he was all right, you were all right, and you were both going to get out of this alive.

And yet that hope was shattered when you turned around to see the blood trickling from his nose and the guards pushing him back into the building. It felt as if your heart and your stomach plummeted to the floor simultaneously when you realized that unless Walter figured something out soon, Peter was going to die. And then they dropped a little farther, though you hadn't thought it possible, when you realized how much it would hurt if he did.

Desperation drives people to do things without thinking of the consequences. As you walked back into the building that you had so recently escaped, you couldn't let yourself think of what would happen to your or Peter if you failed- failure wasn't a option. You'd already lost John... you couldn't lose Peter too. Not now. Not like this. You drew your courage from the realization of your feelings. It would be different this time. It had to be.

Desperation-fueled determination was rewarded when Peter finally woke up, cured and himself again however exhausted he might be. And you'd left him in the hands of Walter and the paramedics, despite how badly you wanted to stay with him. Because you were exhausted too, and hurting... and afraid that staying meant admitting how you felt, and you weren't sure if you were ready.

Leaving the whiskey where it sits for now, you move to the bathroom and fill the tub. Your bruises are beginning to throb- neck, arm and back- and you want nothing more than to soak in hot water for a week... but an hour or two will have to suffice.

The water feels like heaven, soothing your battered and bruised body, and it's only when you feel yourself starting to drift off to sleep that you drag yourself from its embrace. Won't do to let yourself drown after surviving what you did today, you muse, and dress in loose, comfortable sweats and a baggy long-sleeved t-shirt before heading back out to the kitchen. A glass of that whiskey will do nicely as a sleep aid tonight.

You're halfway through the glass- you can already feel the alcohol hitting your bloodstream, spreading warmth to your limbs and leaving your head just a touch fuzzy- when the silence of your apartment is shattered by the sound of a knock on the door. Bewildered, you glance over at the clock- almost two o'clock in the morning- before cautiously crossing the room to peer through the peephole, wondering who would be crazy enough to come knocking at this hour.

Peter.

Your heartbeat suddenly skyrockets. Just the alcohol, you tell yourself, but for a moment you considering pretending that you're not awake and leaving him there. But he looks as tired as you feel, probably more so, and with a deep breath you slide back the lock and open the door.

He smiles tiredly at you, leaning one arm up against the doorframe. "Hi."

"Hi." One corner of your mouth lifts in a tired smile. "Walter said he was taking your home to get some rest." You move aside, gesturing him into the apartment, the door closing softly behind you as he follows you into the kitchen.

"Walter's asleep." His eyes take in the bottle of whiskey and your half-empty glass, but he waves it away when you raise it in offering. "I needed to see you. After what I did..."

Your heart starts its stampede in your chest again. "Peter, I'm fine, really." You reach out to lay your hand over his reassuringly, not noticing that the movement pulls up the sleeve of your t-shirt, exposing the bruises on your wrist. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he waves dismissively. "It's all a hazy blur, mostly, I..." His voice trails off as he glances down, catching sight of the mottled black and blue patches on your arm. "What is... Did I do this?" His passes his fingers gently over the bruises, careful not to put pressure on them, and when you don't answer he looks back up, insistent. "Olivia, did I do this?"

You press your lips together, not wanting to say yes. "Peter, you weren't yourself," you say softly, but he takes that as an answer and his eyebrows furrow.

"Where else?" he demands, still holding your arm. "Show me."

With a soft sigh, you try to deter him one more time. "Peter, really, I'm okay."

"Please, 'Liv," his eyes meet yours, and you can see the pain there. "Show me what I did to you."

Giving up the fight, you dip your head in a nod and he lets go of your arm as you turn and lift the bottom of your shirt, baring the bruise from when he shoved you up against the car. For a moment, there's nothing, and then you feel his fingers lightly move over the area, eliciting a flutter in your heartbeat yet again. It takes all of your concentration to keep your breathing steady.

"I pushed you up against that car." His voice is almost a whisper, and you turn back around to face him again as he pulls his hand back and lets your shirt fall back into place. For a moment you think you won't have to show him the last one, the one covering your neck, but he remembers now, and he's already reaching up to the collar of your shirt. Uncertainty covers his face, and your heart breaks for him. Not wanting to make it any worse, you tilt your chin up, giving him easier access to it, and he gently pulls it down.

"Olivia, I'm so sorry." His voice is ragged, as if he's about to cry, and you want to comfort him but the touch of his hand on your neck has robbed you of your voice. The only thing you can do is reach out to him, and before you've thought anything through your hand has traced its way along his cheek and threaded itself into his hair, trying to find a way to comfort him.

And then _his_ hand is on _your _face, and his other snakes around you and pulls you close to him so he can bury his face in your hair. Some part of you wonders how this is happening, but the day's emotions have been to much to deal with so you just bury your face in his shoulder and breathe him in, grateful that you're both alive and he's _here._

He pulls back too soon, but doesn't let you go, and for a moment he just stands there looking down at you. His hand shifts on your face, his palm cupping your cheek and his fingers brushing the back of your neck, and then his mouth is on yours and he's kissing you.

Your body reacts before your brain does, and you're already kissing him back when you realize what's happening. The recognition sends fire racing through your veins, hot and cleansing, and it burns away all of the worry and fear and desperation that you felt today, leaving only _this._

There's no stopping now. The two of you stumble toward your bedroom, unwilling to let go of each other even for a second, though somehow you still manage to leave a trail of clothes behind you, and by the time Peter finally pushes you onto the bed you're almost delirious with need.

Your lovemaking is almost frantic in its intensity, though there's a gentleness to it too, somehow. Touch reassures you both that you've survived again, together. And when you've finished you lay twined together, your head pillowed on his chest, unwilling even now to let him go. It's funny, you muse, how you couldn't sit next to his bedside because you were afraid of admitting how you felt, but here you are now.

As you start to drift off into sleep, the words come to your lips, unbidden but not unwelcome. "I love you," you whisper. For a moment you think he's already asleep, he didn't hear you, but then his arm tightens around you just a little and he whispers it back right before you slip into blissful oblivion.


End file.
